


Can You See Me?

by CopperCaravan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Bethany Hawke (mentioned) - Freeform, Body Dysphoria, Emil Hawke, Family Issues, Gen, Leandra Hawke (mentioned) - Freeform, Non-Binary Hawke - Freeform, Self-Discovery, Sibling Bonding, breast binding, shifting pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5939028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver accidentally walks in on Hawke binding her breasts and she panics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You See Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Notes about pronouns and Hawke's gender at the end of the work.

“Are you in—shit, sorry!” When Carver sees his sister—considerably more naked than he’d expected—he pulls the door of the bedroom shut just as quickly as he’d opened it. The resulting _bang_ spooks them both, and he hears a very high-pitched (and very short-lived) squeal on the other side of the door.

“Ah, sorry,” he says again, leaning against the door frame and speaking loud enough for her to hear. “I didn’t, ah—I didn’t realize you were... whatever you’re doing.”

For her part, Hawke finishes quickly, securing the bandages around her chest as well as she can, which is to say, not all that well; it’s difficult to tie the ends _and_ hold the tension. What works in theory to disguise her breasts is only mildly successful in reality. _If they weren’t so blasted... just in the bloody way all the damn time and..._ She just exhales heavily and spares a moment to be grateful that their mother is at the market with Gamlen.

“It’s fine,” she says, when she opens the door, but she can’t quite meet Carver’s eyes.

“What is that?” He gestures to her torso, to the barely functional bandages and the bits of flesh that peep out from the gaps, the bumps that are her hardly concealed breasts, marks of bloody fucking womanhood.

“It’s just... um...” Maker’s fucking balls. Why’s it got to be so hard? Why’s she got to have the damn things in the first place? Why can’t— _Oh, just fuck._ She tries again, face and chest burning redder and redder and still not brave enough to meet his eyes. “It’s just better this way.”

Carver takes a tentative step toward her. She almost looks sick—like she’s got a fever and a weariness pinning her in place. “Are you alright?” He reaches out, puts a careful hand under her chin and holds her face up, notes her eyes dropping immediately to the floor. She’s never looked so timid; she’s never looked timid at all. His sister—she’s not timid, not shy, not afraid or ashamed or embarrassed by anything. And yet.

“Hey,” he says again, when she doesn’t answer and tries to pull away. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” she mumbles, walking over to the tiny chest that holds all their clothes. She drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged before it, and begins rifling through it, tossing a few things angrily to the side. Things their mother had bought her, he realizes.

For as long as he can remember, there’s always been something tense between the two of them—his sister and their mother. And since Bethany... well, since Bethany, things only seem to have escalated in that quiet, angry way they sometimes do. But he’d never thought to see her looking quite so defeated. She’s always been so strong, so defiant.

He drops down next to her and she picks out the now very ragged outfit she’d worn as they’d fled Ferelden. The thing’s old and ratty and worn full of holes; he’s not sure why she’s kept it at all. When she raises her arms to pull the shirt down over her head, he sees red marks along her sides, evidence of the rub and pull and squeeze of the bandages she’s wrapped around herself. There are even a few places where the skin’s begun to raw, a few places that are beginning to bruise. How long’s she been doing this?

“Is this from those wrappings?” He reaches toward her without thought and is surprised when she flinches away from the touch. Perhaps he shouldn’t be; it’s clear the places he’s inspecting are painful.

Hawke’s afraid to confirm it, but it is true. For a while, it was worth it—the slight discomfort. But it’s starting to really hurt, to make it hard for her to move where and when she needs to. She’d been caught off guard by the sudden pain of it yesterday; she’d twisted the wrong way during a fight and the sting had flared up, then she’d dropped her staff and Aveline’d had to dive right in between her and a Raider’s sword. All for... Seems like nothing feels quite right anymore, even more than before.

It was one thing when it was just their mother, just _Leandra Amell_ wanting to poke and prod her eldest daughter into the noble lady she was intended to be. But without their father, and without Bethany—Hawke’s just so glad that at least she and Bethany didn’t have the same color eyes, that at least there was _something_ to remind them all that Hawke wasn’t Bethany’s replacement, wasn’t trying to be. It’d been easier, when they’d lived in Lothering. No one questioned the Farmer’s Daughter wearing baggy clothes or doing “man’s work.” It needed doing and dresses were impractical. But here in Kirkwall, in the place where their mother used to host parties and suitors and nobles of fine reputation... Hawke doesn’t have an excuse now. Or an explanation.

“Hey,” Carver says, putting his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Why you wearing those things? They’re hurting you.”

Now she meets his eyes. _They’re hurting you._ Like it’s so simple.

To Carver, it is so simple. Things that hurt his sister are done away with. Yet she’s not done away with them. He doesn’t understand. “Why’re you wearing—”

And she can’t keep it in. Not with him looking at her like that, not with him worried and confused and frustrated. He sees the problem—or thinks he does—and the way to fix it. But it isn’t so simple as that.

She’d tried once, with their mother. Tried to tell her how none of it felt quite right, how it was all a bit too much—the First Day dresses and the elaborate hair and the lady’s etiquette. Had even cut her hair off once when she was young, wanted it to look like her brother and father’s, wanted _herself_ to look like her brother and father. Not... not always, not completely, but... being what Leandra wanted wasn’t right, wasn’t her. Their mother hadn’t felt that way, however.

“I don’t... like them,” she says, finally. It’d never seemed proper to talk about it, certainly not to Carver. Not because he was her brother, but because he was her _younger_ brother. He and Bethany both, they were her responsibility. And after their father had died—there wasn’t time or comfort enough to consider unloading such things, particularly not onto her siblings. And why bother? She’d not known what to say. Even now, she isn’t sure.

“You don’t like... what?” He looks her up and down, takes in the bandages wrapped around her once more as though he hadn’t quite seen them ‘til now. “Your breasts?”

She nods, finally drops her old shirt into her lap and crosses her arms in front of her.

_He’s going to think... He’s going to..._

“Well, there’s got to be a better way than that,” he says, gently touching one of the raw patches below her ribs.

She jerks her head up, looks straight at him like he’s burned her. _She’d been frightened?_ And of _him_ , of all things? Maker. He shakes his head and unties her sloppy knot, lets her hold the loosened cloth against her front and reaches across the little room to the table by the bed. There’s some salve in there somewhere. _Blasted drawer’s full of so much useless junk..._

When he finally finds it— _what’s Gamlen even got in here worth keeping anyway—_ he begins rubbing it into her skin, careful and as gentle as he knows how to be. They’ve never been that—gentle. Not either of them. Their father had been, at times. And Bethany. She’d been far too gentle for this world.

But still, despite the many differences between him and his oldest sister, they’d always had that in common: that roughness. There had been times—when their father had left him behind for lessons in magic, or when their mother had ignored him in favour of dressing up the girls—that their shared inability to be quiet or calm or sweet had been a comfort, for him certainly. But now he thinks that it had been the same for her, perhaps.

He gets to a particularly bad spot and she hisses as she inhales.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t stop. They’ll have to fight through it, like they have so much else. It’s got to be done, else it’ll only get worse—more painful, or infected even. But it’s almost finished. Her back’s adequately covered with salve and her sides. Just needs to get the spots below her collarbones now, and a few along her stomach. “Can I?” He nods toward her once he’s made his way around to her front and sits on his knees.

She nods, moves the bandages out of the way, but keeps herself well enough covered. It’s more out of habit than anything else, more for her own comfort. This hadn’t been what she’d expected, in those very rare moments when she’d considered bringing it up. She’d thought perhaps it would go about as well as it had with their mother, or perhaps it would just result in disinterest. Carver has his own problems after all, and he’s never shied away from reminding her of that when she dares to ask him along on some errand or other that he doesn’t care to be a part of. _So stubborn_ , she thinks. And she almost smiles, for they are so very alike, hard as it may be to see at first.

“We can talk about it,” he says, still rubbing salve into the raw places along her stomach. She’s surprised, not by the words themselves, but with just how ardently he says them. Perhaps she shouldn’t be—this is Carver, this is her brother, and though he has always fumbled over words, she has never doubted his intent.

“I’m not sure I can,” she says.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he says, screwing the lid back on the little pot of salve.

No. But she’d like to. If she had the words. If she knew what words she was looking for.

“Sometimes I just...” She lets out a breath and tries to look away again, but Carver’s hand is under her chin, holding her eyes to his like she used to do when he was a little boy, trying to squirm out of trouble for pulling Bethany’s braids or toppling their mother’s vase of flowers.

It’s not about forcing her to do what she doesn’t want to; it’s about her knowing that she can look at him. He’s never been so good with words. Bethany was always much better at that—at saying _I love you,_ or _we’re family_ or _I’m here for you._ Carver’s only ever known how to _do_ those things. How to get up at night and check everyone’s beds, how to divert the attention of a Templar with an impulsive punch or a knocked over cart, how to till hard soil so there’d be food on the table. He doesn’t know how to _tell_ her that he’ll listen; he only remembers her holding his face like this when he was young, remembers her saying “Carver, you can tell me the truth; I swear I won’t be mad.”

She seems to understand; at least, she doesn’t try to move away.

“Sometimes I don’t feel like I think I’m supposed to,” she says. “Like a woman. I don’t want to... be that. Sometimes I just feel like it’s not quite right.”

She’s struggling; he can tell. She’s never been one for words either, not really. She was the one he and Bethany would go to when a kid in the village was mean, and they always knew the problem would be dealt with. She was the one who took care of the farm, after father died, and the house too, while mother was grieving alone in her bedroom. She was the one they all followed—the one Carver followed—out of Ferelden. She’s never been much good with words, but then, he’s never needed words from her. Something else they have in common, he thinks. He hopes.

“Do you... feel like a man then?”

She’s quiet for a moment, considering. He hopes that was the right question, hopes that he’s understanding her right. He’s never been much good at _listening_ either.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “Maybe. But... but maybe not. I’m not sure; I’ve never—I just don’t feel right like _this_.” She raises her elbows, trying to gesture to herself without releasing her hands and the fabric held to her chest.

“Ok,” he says, getting up from the floor and pulling her up gently by her shoulders.

She looks up at him again; he’s been tall enough to look down at her for several years now, but she’s never felt small to him. Now she does.

“Ok?” She repeats. _That’s it? That’s all?_

He nods. “Yeah. Ok.”

And she exhales. For the first time in a while, it is with relief. That’s it. That’s all. It had been so simple, after all.

“But you don’t need to put those back on today,” he says, the scolding tone almost reminding her of their father. “We’ll figure something else out, but I don’t want you wearing those; they’re hurting you.”

“Ok,” she says.

He passes her old shirt to her and turns around so she can slip it over her head and let the bandages fall to the floor. It’s a relief, letting her skin air out and tingle as it heals. But it feels a bit uncomfortable too, not having her chest bound, not covering up.

“We don’t have to go out today,” he says, as though he senses her worry.

Perhaps he does. They’ve quite a bit in common, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of things:  
> Although my Hawke is non-binary, I felt comfortable tagging her as "Female Hawke" as well, partially because at this point, she's still figuring things out and partially because it's less about the pronouns for her than it is about the bodily disconnect, which leads me to the second thing.  
> I've also used "she" and "her" for Hawke, partly for reasons stated above and partly because I, personally, have always felt more comfortable being referred to as "he" or "she" rather than "they." And Hawke inherited her non-binary-ness from me, so it's my prerogative.


End file.
